Lessons in Patience: The Ocean Doesn’t Do Schedules!

There’s an old saying among sailors: you can choose where you’re going, or when you’ll get there — but not both. The ocean doesn’t care about your itinerary. She’ll smile politely while you point at the chart and say, “We’ll arrive Tuesday,” then slap your boat sideways on Wednesday just to make her point. The sea does not do schedules — she does lessons in humility.

Lessons in Patience (and Humility)

There are many places around the world that are famous for teaching this lesson the hard way. Some, for example, on my radar have been Point Mendocino and Point Conception in the states — both known for breaking more dreams than bad relationships. Down in Central America, the Tehuantepec and Papagayo winds have sent plenty of sailors scrambling for religion. For me the Mozambique Channel, is where the message rings out the loudest!

That stretch between Madagascar and South Africa is a chaos cauldron — the Agulhas Current ripping south like a freight train, colliding with cold southerlies blowing up from Antarctica. The result? Gail force winds and walls of water that don’t follow physics or reason. Contend with that mix at the wrong time, and I promise you’ll learn the hard way that the ocean doesn’t care about your ETA. In this part of the world, the sailing carries a finality unlike anywhere else I’ve been.

Day Trips —

Those one- or two-day hops between islands are usually straightforward, like skipping across Polynesia, Fiji, Indonesia, or the Caribbean. You can easily forecast these legs — up to three days, the forecast is generally reliable. Just be patient and find a decent window. Check wind, swell, swell period, rain, lightning, current and tides — the basics depending on where you are in the world.

If you get caught off guard on one of these legs, odds are you missed something. Anomalies like squalls do happen — those surprise mood swings of the tropics — but they aren’t forecastable. They’re quick little demons, in and out of your life in short order, like a freight train. This is where radar and a sailor’s ancient art of cloud-staring come in handy. Big, tall, dark, and mushroom-shaped? Probably time to reef. Puffy and cute like marshmallows? Probably not the end of the world.

Passages (Ocean Crossings) —

These are a different beast — the long hauls, hundreds or even thousands of miles where you stop thinking in hours and start thinking in systems. You’re studying patterns now, not just forecasts — digging into Jimmy Cornell’s World Cruising Routes, basically the holy scripture of how, where, and when to go and when to stay put.

Take my Indian Ocean crossing from Cocos Keeling to Mauritius — about twenty days of open water single handed. I’d been watching the weather for months, seeing a rhythm take shape: every seven to ten days, a system would claw its way up from the south bringing 30–40 knots of wind and a confused, angry swell that could build out of nowhere and turn the ride from pleasant to punishing in a heartbeat. Like clockwork — nature’s way of saying, “You’re gonna get spanked; it’s just a matter of when.”

So, with all that in mind, I left expecting to get hit around day seven. From Cocos Keeling I aimed about fifteen degrees southwest of the rhumb line to Mauritius — the plan being that when the inevitable 40-knot slap showed up on day five, six, or seven, I could bear off to 160° apparent, heading northwest, keeping it comfy and controlled off the stern instead of taking it on the beam. That gave me the sea room I needed to run with the weather when it hit, without overshooting too far north.

And sure enough, day five — boom. The system hit right on cue. I ran northwest for a couple days at a comfortable angle, then climbed back up to the rhumb line and hardened up — perfectly lined up, just as planned.

The Mental Game on Long Passages

Patience is the entire game. For me, there’s no racing and no proving a point to the sea. My goal isn’t to get there fast — it’s to get there in one piece. If it’s fast, cool! If not, cool! I live on the boat either way, and I’m going to be on it. I don’t care about bragging rights or speed records. I care about preserving gear and keeping the rhythm of the boat steady and safe. I’m not trying to reinvest in sails and rigging every couple of years. I’ve sailed around the world on the original rigging of my '04 44DS. I have it checked every six months, and it’s still in great shape. The only thing I changed was the deck step before I set off. The ocean rewards patience and punishes ego every single time.

Weather Routers for Long Passages

You’ll hear about weather routers — retired Navy types, old salts, and meteorological wizards who guide you remotely. They’re like spiritual advisors for sailors: part scientist, part therapist. They tell you when to slow down, when to go north, and when to apologize to Neptune.

I used one for the first two weeks of my Indian Ocean crossing. Truth be told, he mostly confirmed what I already saw. Not that I know everything — far from it — but at that point, I was three years in and certainly knew how to read a forecast.

To me, these services made total sense back in the days of single-sideband radios and printed GRIB files. But now, with Starlink or Iridium with PredictWind, we can pull more data from the cockpit than NOAA had in the ’90s. Still, when you’re alone out there and haven’t seen another soul in ten days, it’s nice having someone on the other end of the signal checking your math.

I will say, If you’re new to this and it’s your first long one, there’s a great deal of value there. More than just forecasting, some of them provide local knowledge that’s invaluable.

My Passage Experiences

For me personally, I’ve sailed across the Pacific Ocean from La Cruz, Mexico, to Nuku Hiva in French Polynesia. That passage is very predictable in hind sight — the trade winds are steady, the swell is consistent, and it’s basically a broad reach the whole way. The only real unknown is crossing the ITCZ, where you never quite know what you’ll get when you cross the equator.

My passage from Cocos Keeling to Mauritius across the Indian Ocean was another story entirely — a beast, as I said. If you’re going to tackle that one as your first major crossing, I’d strongly suggest hiring a router and doing a lot of homework first. Personally, I wouldn’t recommend it as a first passage, especially in the southern hemisphere. The northern route is a bit more forgiving since you’re not contending with the Southern Ocean, but in the south, it’s just you and your boat. There’s no commercial traffic, no ships, nothing. I went fourteen days without seeing another vessel. The weather patterns are unpredictable, the wind speeds fluctuate wildly, and squalls are constant. It will humble you.

The Mozambique Channel and the Wild Coast are shorter runs, but they’ll keep you honest too. Do your research and check for windows very carefully. Make sure there is leeway on the other end of the forecast, get a weather router if you feel you need to, talk to locals and respect those waters — they’ve earned their reputation and the finality they bring if you’re not paying attention.

Then there was the South Atlantic — from Cape Town to St. Helena, St. Helena to Recife, and Recife to Martinique. The first two legs were relatively gentle: 15 to 18 knots of breeze, consistent angles, smooth sailing. But once I went from Recife to Martinique, things got spicy. Crossing the equator there brought lightning, squalls, and plenty of surprises.

My last passage several months ago was from San Juan, Puerto Rico to Shelter Bay, Panama. My original plan was to make landfall in Bocas del Toro, but based on wind angle and weather, I ended up in Shelter Bay instead. This run is not to be underestimated. I had been watching the weather closely and was warned by everyone to keep an eye on the Colombian coast — where a massive compression zone builds and can turn nasty fast. The general advice was to stay southwest and make as much south as you can early, because the squalls are relentless.

Every time I tried to dodge one, I’d spend hours heading due west to skirt around it. What started as a beautiful 130-degree apparent broad reach gradually hardened up with every diversion, until by the end I was beating in at about 79 degrees to reach Shelter Bay. The lightning was constant — an electric jungle of chaos lighting up the sea. Like most Caribbean crossings, you can only really forecast the first three days, but there’s a natural rhythm to the weather systems moving through the basin. The key is to watch, wait, and move when it feels right.

Crew and Calendars Don’t Mix

I’ve had crew four or five times over the last several years when I got bored — some good, some bad — but there’s one rule carved into my brain: there is no schedule. If someone tells me, “I have to catch a flight on the 15th to get back to work in a week,” that’s a red flag right off the bat. Obviously, people have jobs — they’re not living the same free-flowing lifestyle I am — but as a rule, if someone only has a week, that’s rarely enough time. Unless they’re staying within the same marina, island chain, or country, seven days just isn’t practical for a real sailing trip.

I tell people all the time: look, I can’t make any promises. Weather rules everything. If you’re coming to sail across an ocean and say you have to be home in 30 days, I won’t take you — there’s no guarantee. The boat could break, the weather could turn, a million things could happen. But if you’ve got two weeks, and we’re somewhere coastal like Thailand where we’re never more than ten miles from shore and I can always get you to a cab, that’s different. It’s all situational — family, friends, crew, doesn’t matter. The ocean doesn’t care who you are or what your return ticket says.

Final Thought

So, yeah — you can pick the place, or the time. But not both. Out here, patience isn’t just a virtue — it’s survival.

The ocean doesn’t run on clocks. She runs on rhythm, chaos, and the occasional punch to the ego. You can fight her and lose, or flow with her and arrive exactly when you’re meant to.

Days Sober: 2,141— in Colón, Panama.